


5 Times Clint Made Coulson Flour-Based Foods

by Perpetual Motion (perpetfic)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: 5 Things, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:56:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetfic/pseuds/Perpetual%20Motion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint feeds Coulson. Domestic as hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 Times Clint Made Coulson Flour-Based Foods

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to infiniteeight for the beta work!

**Cobbler**  
“Happy Birthday,” Clint says after he closes Coulson’s office door, his left hand behind his back.

“My birthday is classified,” Coulson replies without looking up from his computer. 

“What? In case of time-travelers?” Clint snorts when Coulson gives him a bland look. “Really?”

“Depends who you ask,” Coulson admits. He pushes away from his desk and stands up. “What do you need?”

“Just dropping this off,” Clint says, pulling his hand from behind his back and holding small box out to Coulson. “For your classified birthday.”

Coulson takes the box and opens it. “Cake is generally acceptable,” he says.

“You hate cake,” Clint says. “It’s a cobbler. I had to redo the crust a couple of times because it tasted too much like plain flour, but I added some cinnamon and sugar, and it evened out.”

Coulson stares at the cobbler. “How do you know I don’t like cake?”

“You never eat it on anyone else’s birthday,” Clint says with a grin. “Also, I double-checked with Sitwell, and he confirmed your anti-cake stance.”

“Anti-cake stance?” Coulson asks, feeling himself smile.

“His words.”

“I believe it.” Coulson picks up the fork and tries a piece of cobbler. It’s cherry, moist and nearly crumbling apart. The crust is slightly sweet but not overpowering, complementing the deep sweetness of the cherries.

“You like it?” Clint asks.

“It’s great,” Coulson says. He’s about to say more, but Clint ducks his head and pecks him on the mouth, and Coulson nearly chokes in surprise.

“Happy classified day where you fear time travelers,” Clint tells him.

Coulson stares at the cobbler for a moment before he gets his wits about him. “Well,” he says. He touches Clint’s arm as Clint starts to back away. “That’s it?” he asks.

“Hey, I baked you cobbler.”

Coulson slides his hand up Clint’s arm, across his shoulder, and cups the side of Clint’s neck. Clint leans in when Coulson pulls lightly, and Coulson kisses him properly, soft on the mouth with a hint of tongue and a tiny nibble on Clint’s bottom lip as he moves away.  
“And Happy day to me, apparently,” Clint says, licking his bottom lip.

Coulson smiles at him and takes another bite of his cobbler. “I’ll see you later,” he says.

“Oh, you bet.” Clint walks backwards out of the office, watching Coulson the whole way, grinning when Coulson waves goodbye.

**Bread**  
“The bread in the pantry’s covered in mold,” Clint calls from the kitchen of the safehouse as Coulson finishes drying his hair. 

“I am not going outside again,” Coulson says. It’s pouring rain mixed with sleet, and he’s not entirely certain he can make it to the end of the driveway, never mind the five miles back to town. He’s also just gotten out of a shower that is not nearly hot enough, and he’ll be damned if he re-soaks himself for bread.

“Stew’s no good without bread,” Clint says. Coulson hears him opening and closing cupboards and walks into the kitchen as Clint spots something in the back of the cupboard and grins in triumph.

“More bread?” Coulson asks.

“Better,” Clint replies. He holds up a white packet with red letters. It’s stamped with one word: YEAST. “And it hasn’t expired,” Clint adds as he straightens up and opens the fridge to grab eggs. “There’s a mixing bowl in the bottom cupboard,” he says. “Grab it for me?”

Coulson does, putting it on the counter across from where Clint’s been chopping vegetables. “You’re making bread and stew from scratch?” 

“Stew’s gonna need a couple of hours to properly simmer. We’ve got time,” Clint assures him.

“That wasn’t the intent of my question.”

Clint pulls a bag of flour from the back of the pantry and turns around. “Huh?” he asks.

“We could just make some of the canned soup I know we have,” Coulson says.

Clint gives Coulson an insulted look. “It’s pouring rain and sleet,” Clint says. “The temperature’s gonna drop overnight, and you want canned soup for dinner?”

“That was…” Coulson shakes his head as Clint grabs the salt from the top of the fridge. “I’m wondering why you’re putting in the effort, I suppose.”

“I was gonna ask you out to dinner last week,” Clint says, “but then this came up, and I like to cook, so I figure it’s the next best thing.”

Coulson doesn’t say anything as Clint starts measuring ingredients into the mixing bowl. “So that kiss on my birthday?”

“Was supposed to have a follow-up date invitation.”

“You haven’t made a move since.”

“I’ve basically been op-hopping for the last couple of months,” Clint says. “It wasn’t for lack of interest.”

Coulson steps next to Clint, waits for Clint to look at him, and kisses him on the mouth. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, I’ll have dinner with you.”

Clint beams. “Awesome.” 

**Pizza**  
For their eighth date—not that Phil is counting, but there may be checkmarks on his calendar—Clint pulls away from the goodnight kiss of their seventh and says, “Do you want to come over this weekend? You and me and pizza and beer and a couple of movies?”

“Sounds good,” Phil says. He smiles when Clint pecks him on the mouth. “What time?”

“Saturday? Maybe three?”

“I can do four.”

“Four works. What kind of pizza?”

“Pepperoni and extra cheese if you don’t have a preference.”

“Sounds good.”

When Phil shows up Saturday, Clint opens the door in a worn-out t-shirt and flour-dusted jeans. There’s a towel tucked into one pocket and a red streak on the back of Clint’s hand. “What are you making?” Phil asks as he steps inside, handing over a six-pack of Clint’s preferred beer as he does so.

“Pizza,” Clint replies as he turns and walks into his kitchen. Phil follows, thinking they’ll be a take-and-bake pizza or a frozen number that Clint is adding toppings to. Instead, there’s a jar of pizza sauce, three bowls of grated cheese, and a deli bag half-full of pepperoni. 

“No homemade sauce?” Phil deadpans, stealing a slice of pepperoni from the bag. It’s slightly less salty than packaged pepperoni. He likes it.

“I’m not great with marinara,” Clint says as he takes the dough he’s obviously been working on and begins to press it into a round pan. “It’s hard to get the acidity right if you don’t have a lot of time to tweak it.”

“Of course,” Phil says. He grins when Clint slants him a look. “Do you always cook like this?”

“What? From scratch?”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes. Depends on if I have time. Depends on the company I’m keeping.”

“Trying to impress me?” Phil jokes.

Clint leans over and kisses him. “If I were trying to impress you, I’d do a lot better than pizza.”

Phil watches as Clint finishes pressing the dough and starts to slather on the sauce. “I think pizza will do just fine,” he says. He presses his hand to Clint’s back as he moves around him to get to the fridge and pull out beers. “If one of those cheeses is parmesan.”

“You think you’re dealing with an amateur?” Clint asks. “Please.”

Phil chuckles and leans against the counter, stealing bits of cheese as Clint keeps working.

**Pork Chops**  
“This is the saddest cupboard check I have done in my life,” Clint announces. He’s in Phil’s kitchen, opening and closing cupboards and pulling out what he can find that’s edible.

“So sorry I didn’t get time to shop before you came by,” Phil deadpans as he resettles his crutches under his arms and limps over to watch Clint forage.

“Sit down,” Clint says.

“I’m fine.” He is, really. The painkillers have kicked in, and it’s just a hairline fracture in his kneecap. Not something to take lightly, but he’s had worse. “Any luck?”

“You have two cans of mushrooms, a can of green beans, an onion that hasn’t gained sentience, and a couple of pork chops I found in the freezer. Plus an amazing amount of spices for a guy who apparently doesn’t eat at home much.” Clint grabs a tin marked FLOUR from a corner of the counter and pops it open. “And you have enough flour for me to pull this off.”

“Pull what off?” Phil asks as he limps over to the dining table and sitting down. He gives Clint a grateful smile when Clint pauses in his prep to grab a pillow from the living room and prop up Phil’s injured leg onto one of the other chairs.

“Dinner,” Clint replies. “Only gonna take one bowl and one pan, too.”

“How’d you learn to cook like this?” Phil asks. “I swear every time you have me over, you’ve got something cooking.”

“Learned in the circus. It’s easier to feed a full company on-site than to try and get everyone to agree on a restaurant.”

Phil watches Clint dump flour into a bowl and add spices. “Why are you smelling it?” 

“I know it’s spiced enough if I can’t smell the flour,” Clint says. “Otherwise, it comes out kind of bland.”

“Like the cobbler?”

“Yup.” Clint grins at him and keeps seasoning. When he finishes, he puts the bowl aside and opens and closes drawers until he finds a chopping knife. He checks the sharpness of it against the pad of his thumb and makes an approving noise. “How are your knives this good?”

“I do cook when I can,” Phil says. “I’ve just been busy and over at your place a lot recently.”

Clint cuts the onion down the middle and nods at how cleanly it splits. “You could just move in with me,” he says more to the onion than to Phil. “I’d feed you every night.”

Phil waits for Clint to look up at him. He’s not blushing, but he’s having trouble meeting Phil’s eyes. “We’ll move in together,” Phil says. “I’d like two bedrooms so I can have a home office.”

“I want a bigger kitchen,” Clint says.

“Maybe a house?” Phil offers. “Something with a yard so you can set up a target?”

“Something with a big patio,” Clint replies. “So I can grill, and you can read outside if the weather’s good.”

“That sounds nice,” Phil says.

Dinner is delicious but not nearly as good as the way Clint keeps smiling at him.

**Pasta**  
“You cannot be serious,” Phil says as he walks in with the last of the boxes. They’ve found a three-bedroom house—a master for them, the second a guest room, and the third piled with boxes for Phil’s home office—and Clint’s already unpacked half the kitchen and is in the midst of rolling dough on the granite slab counters.

“I meant to do it last week,” Clint says. “I wanted to be able to pack it up with the rest of my stuff and surprise you with dinner, but I got called up for the warlord thing.”

“Pretty sure that’s not the official title,” Phil says. He puts the boxes on the dining room table—Clint’s that they kept because it’s solid oak and the size of a small country—and walks over to watch Clint work. He’s flattening the dough with a rolling pin, sprinkling flour as the dough tries to stick. “What are you making this time?” he asks.

“Pasta,” Clint replies.

Phil doesn’t have a response to that. Pasta’s something he buys in bags or boxes, depending on what type of noodle is on sale. He leans against the counter and watches Clint roll out the dough, and he laughs when Clint pulls a tiny, heart-shaped cookie cutter from his pocket. “Really?” he asks.

“It’s romantic, you cretin,” Clint says.

Phil plucks the cookie cutter from Clint’s hand and kisses him on the mouth. He tastes like flour. He tastes, Phil thinks, like cobbler and bread and pork chops and home. “How do I do this?” he asks. “What’s the procedure?”

“It’s a cookie cutter,” Clint says. “It’s pretty simple.”

“How do you make pasta?” Phil asks.

“You cut the shapes, and then you dry them on tea towels, and then you drop them into a canister,” Clint replies. He smiles when Phil presses the cookie cutter into the dough. “Like that,” he says.

“Can we eat it tonight?”

“It has to dry overnight,” Clint says as he leans against Phil and watches him press out more hearts. “But I’ll have the whole kitchen and dining room unpacked by then, so we can do a proper dinner.”

“We could order in like other people,” Phil replies. He grins when Clint bites his ear.

“That’s no fun,” Clint says. “Anyone can order in.”

“Can’t do anything like a regular person, can you?”

“Moved in with my boyfriend,” Clint retorts. “That’s pretty regular.”

“Except it’s me.”

Clint takes the cookie cutter from Phil and presses out a few pieces of pasta himself. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s you.”

Phil grins and moves the cut pieces to the tea towel.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] 5 Times Clint Made Coulson Flour-Based Foods](https://archiveofourown.org/works/607214) by [sly (curiously_me)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiously_me/pseuds/sly)




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